


The Magister and the Inquisitor

by Illyria_Lives



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, its midnight leave me alone, let me have this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-20 23:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1529891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illyria_Lives/pseuds/Illyria_Lives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dorian finally came back to full consciousness, groaning and mentally casting out for any amount of mana left inside of him for a healing spell, he thought that he must still be dreaming.</p><p>"Well," Armand Trevelyan said, cleaning blood off of his sword with what little scraps of clothes remained on the body of the Templar Behemoth, "the end of the world sure does make for a small one, no?" and smiled that silverite dagger smile at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Magister and the Inquisitor

**Author's Note:**

> Actually beta'd this time. It's still pretty trite though. Midnight writing, holla.

Dorian Pavus first spotted Armand Trevelyan when he was nothing more than a hired guard of the ball's hosts, another soldier in mail and plate and with a halfhelm as his mask at the grand Orlesian ball, standing at attention against the wall. One of his fellows was next to him, back as straight as the spear he held in one hand. Armand held no such stature; his limbs were loose and easy and he seemed a single breath away from jumping into action. Dorian had watched all the guards, studied them, as any smart mage should when moving in confined spaces with devout Andrastians, but he kept looking again and again at Armand Trevelyan, a shiver of worry and paranoia traveling down his spine. He was so sure that the man's posture and presence was indicative of him knowing something...

He was milling around a table with refreshments, watching Armand out of the corner of his eye, and caught the young man bringing one hand up to his mouth in a polite yawn. But, before lowering his hand, he elbowed the iron-backed guard beside him, catching his attention. When it was secured, he neatly folded all fingers save the middle one down, and put it between his lips, sucking. Even as Dorian sputtered, laughing incredulously, the guard next to Armand bent over in silent laughter, elbowing Armand in the ribs while trying to regain his professional composure. Armand laughed as well, resuming his stance, and, more importantly, catching Dorian's eye.

The Magister raised his wineglass slightly. Armand flashed him a knife of a smile, more surprised than anything to have an audience, and winked.

~

When Dorian finally came back to full consciousness, groaning and mentally casting out for any amount of mana left inside of him for a healing spell, he thought that he must still be dreaming.

"Well," Armand Trevelyan said, cleaning blood off of his sword with what little scraps of clothes remained on the body of the Templar Behemoth, "the end of the world sure does make for a small one, no?" and smiled that silverite dagger smile at him.

"You know this man?" a woman with a Seeker's emblem demanded of him. She sounded furious, but Armand showed little to no response, sheathing his sword. Dorian finally got a sturdy enough grasp on the power within him to send out a healing spell, soothing what parts of him still felt like they were being pounded in with red lyrium crystals. The glow on such a weak spell was low, and he began to pull together excuses for why an Orlesian nobleman he had seen once at a party was out in the wilderness, being attacked by Templars--

"He's a Tevinter Magister, Seeker," Armand said, addressing her. He glanced down at Dorian. "That spell was plenty subtle, I'll grant you, but between the robes and the staff over there in the rubble, and the trouble you're having with the Fade," he made a vague gesture with one hand, indicating the air around them, "there's not much left to be guessed at."

The sound of a mechanism clicking made Dorian look to his far left, where a dwarf with a very large, intricate-looking crossbow was readying up for a shot at him. On instinct, Dorian reached for mana that wasn't there, and began reaching for more, from beyond the Veil, trying to grab onto wisps of it without really prying.

"I've never met a Magister," the dwarf said grimly, "that didn't deserve a bolt to the head."

"Please," Dorian said quickly, looking back at Armand, who stood there, moving in and out of focus slightly--his head still must be injured, even with the healing spell--just watching him. "Don't kill me. I need to get back home. Need to help them find a solution. They will have felt, have felt..." How could he describe it to them? They were not mages; they couldn't understand.

"Felt the world screaming?" Armand's voice was quiet, and Dorian realized why he was moving, swimming out of focus. Dorian was looking to the Fade, looking for more mana and more strength, and Armand was ghosting in it, walking in tandem with the Fade and the lands beyond the Veil.

"Who _are_ you?" Dorian gaped, very embarrassingly confused.

"Well, seeing as we have the same problem, Magister, it would appear that I'm your new best friend."

~

Dorian had been raised by blood.

Both his mother and father were mages; his father, a grand Magister of Tevinter, who studied in the Circle of Minrathous and hundreds of slaves to care for his family. For Dorian. Slaves that would lay upon the marble table in his father's study, go beneath the knife with little but a shocked cry as the blade parted skin, let the blood flow out and into his father's hands.

He had seen the red life bleed out, felt the Veil shifting, thinning. He had heard the whispers. The demons, clawing and pressing at the thinned air, trying to be born. His father had commanded them. His mother had made them parade for her, burning blood-soaked feathers with lyrium candles and inhaling the smoke.

Dorian had watched the slaves, looked into their eyes as they died, life stolen from them. Ripped from them.

The same look was on Armand's face as he was driven back, farther and farther, by the Venatori Lord, sword crashing and slipping off of the hulking warrior's armor and tall shield, which he used as a battering ram to knock Armand off of his feet, slamming him again and again. The Inquisitor was struggling, and the battle had tied Cole and Sera in opposite corners of the Keep's center hold, unable to assist him. The Venatori slashed at Armand and his shield was useless against the blade. Red washed down his side and Armand momentarily fell to one knee. Then he stood again. The shield, abandoned, sword valiantly raised, face a mask of pain, the Ventori was beating him to death.

Dorian slammed his stave on the ground, releasing a wave of raw energy that swept the soldiers nearest to him off of their feet--but not far enough to affect the Lord that was tearing into Armand. Dorian reached deeper. Deeper. Felt the raw mana inside of him, took harsh hold onto it, all of it, far more than he should have. His hands clawed at his staff, a silverite and veridium staff his father had made for him when he had himself graduated to an Enchanter of the Circle of Minrathous. The metal buckled, bent beneath his fingers.

 _Deeper_ , something that was not Dorian said, something that was old and cold and half-mad with hunger and jealousy. _Reach deeper, into the darkness. Bleed_. He knew. He _knew_. He was a Magister of Tevinter, he knew the power of blood, of giving your hand to a demon, he knew he knew _he knew_.

He knew that he would not be able to remain at Armand's side, should he do this. The power waited, down in his bones, in his veins, down beneath the mana well he had, infinite. Dorian reached down and down stopped just short, the whispering becoming screams and shouts and demands and his own father, something dark and horrible swimming beneath his skin and the elven slaves staring at him from the table--

He cast out, wide and bright and loud against his bones, hot against his blood, all of the power he had. It swept in an arc, not even a real spell, just power, roasting the closest Venatori in their armor, ripping them apart, bone from flesh. As it traveled it weakened pitifully, but it still knocked the Venatori Lord out cold, the big man dropping like a puppet with his strings cut, falling right to Armand's feet. The Inquisitor dropped his sword, dropped down to his knees, and pulled out a dagger to make quick work of the man while he was felled.

Dorian was also on his knees. He was on the edge, breath cold in his throat, the metal of his stave blackened and hissing. He let it drop, hands blistered and frozen at once. He felt heavy, blood weighing a hundred thousand stone inside of him, deafened by the thinned Veil and the demons that followed him. Haunted him.

Armand had collapsed back, sitting with his head tilted up towards the stars by the Venatori corpse. The entire yard was littered with corpses, Dorian realized. Cole and Sera were running towards Armand, and Dorian wanted to as well, only he could feel the power in Armand's blood, even across the yard as he was. It was like lyrium. Infused with magic, from the glowing green mark in his skin. Dorian wanted to, begged himself to, wished he could lay hands on him, heal him with barely a word, but he was empty and tired and Armand was looking at him from across the yard, face pale and eyes wide.

Dorian thought of two things in the split second it took for him to fall unconscious: the first was of Armand, lips closing around his finger and sucking. The second was of Armand, smiling at him like a knife.

They were not unpleasant things to think of, before the darkness overtook him.

~

Dorian wanted to punch a wall. Preferably one made of stone. Good, hard stone. Embedded with glass.

Armand would not leave his Maker-damned fingers away from his mouth.

Looking over troop placements on the map in the battle room, pinning his fingers between his teeth in thought. Eating the Great Hall, laughing and sucking a drop of sauce from his thumb. Listening to various dignitaries talk, one hand at his mouth, lightly tracing the outline of his lips with the tips of his fingers. It was more than any sane man could rightly take.

Once, as Armand led the way down the corridor on the way to a mission, sheathing weapons as he went, talking, he nicked the edge of his finger against some metal corner and looking at it like it was a waste of his time. He then stuck the offending member in his mouth and sucked, cheeks going hollow, and then pulling it out slowly, luxuriously.

Dorian ran into a wall, missing the door entirely.

Thank the Maker, Armand was already past the doorway and didn’t see. But Sera did. The blonde elf gave him a look, pausing to really enjoy the image of the proud magister standing around with one hand on his bruised nose.

She then sighed, rolling her eyes. She muttered something suspiciously like “both of you, horrible,” and Dorian dutifully ignored her, continuing to follow once again, trying to keep a tighter rein on his own reactions.

~

"May I speak with you?" Dorian asked Armand as the main bulk of the other war leaders and representatives left the battle room, some glancing over their shoulders at him as they passed. Cassandra, for one, and Vivienne and Varric as well. The Chantry Seeker, the Circle Mage, and the dwarf from Kirkwall, all with plenty of reason not to leave their Inquisitor alone with the Tevinter Magister.

Armand quirked a gently questioning smile at him and then shrugged. "Anywhere but in here," he said, leading the way, "I'm sick of this room." Dorian could grant him that much. The war was taking its toll on all of them, but it was especially painful to see Armand change, watch the premature aging enter his laughing eyes. They walked together in silence down the corridor to Armand's room.

"Welcome to my sanctuary," Armand told him with little enthusiasm, waving Dorian inside ahead of him. The mage walked inside stiffly, awkwardly, looking around and seeing immediately that Armand wasn't kidding about it being his sanctuary--no maps, no books or letters, no weapons, even, save the sword and heavy shield Armand dropped down at the foot of his heavy four poster bed as soon as he had shut the door behind him. The weight gone, he rolled his shoulders and groaned. Not the kind of sound Dorian was prepared for.

"Dorian?" Armand asked, and Dorian shook himself mentally, back to attention. What had he been planning to say? He had been rehearsing it for a better part of the week, but now... Armand was looking at him with one eyebrow raised, hands moving of their own accord to unbuckle his armor. Such a small gesture. Of what, Dorian wasn't sure. Trust. Intimacy. He appreciated it, even thought he had thought often about what it would be like to undress Inquisitor Trevelyan's armor himself... Maker, Dorian thought, but what you do to me.

"I was reflecting earlier in the day," Dorian found his words, "about you..."

"About me?" Armand asked, raising an eyebrow even as he was dropping bits and pieces of armor and mail and padding cloth onto the floor. He sank down onto the edge of his bed and looked up at Dorian, elbows on his knees. From his superior height, Dorian was painfully aware of how Armand's shirt pulled away from his chest, the open neck hanging loose and open. There went his words, almost nearly remembered.

"I have... come to appreciate you greatly," he settled for.

Armand hummed a non-response, lips curving deeper into a smile.

"You are... very brave," Dorian continued, "and capable. Far more than I ever expected when I met you."

"You thought me incapable?" Armand questioned. "When I saved your life from the Templars and saw through your ruse?"

"No!" Dorian sputtered. Maker, the man did make it difficult sometimes. "When we first met! You were sucking on your finger."

The smile grew. Flashed. "You remember that."

Dorian felt heat rise in his face. He did remember it, damn Armand and his gloating. Not that he thought about it. At all. Never.

"... You are not someone I'm ever likely to forget," he admitted, glancing at Armand out of the corner of his eye, and for a moment Armand's smile vanished, up in a puff of smoke, and even as Dorian was preparing to backtrack, to make excuses, Armand stood up and stepped up to him. Dorian did not move back, so they stood nearly touching chest-to-chest.

"Dorian," Armand muttered, "I am going to kiss you now. So you can stop talking."

"Thank the Maker," Dorian breathed in relief, and pulled him in close.

Mouths were easier than words. Lips giving way beneath lips, mouths open and tongues slipping together, warm and tasting like the wine Armand had been drinking in the battle room. Armand’s breath was ragged when they separated, his hands struggling to undo the ties on Dorian’s robes.

Dorian took control, pushing his hands aside to strip himself of layers of enchanted cloth and belts. The faster they could be skin against skin, the better.

Armand pulled his shirt off, and the second his head was clear, Dorian was at him again, sucking on his lower lip, hands pressed into his back, pushing him down onto the bed, the two of them falling onto each other. Armand laughed and shifted beneath Dorian, canting up his hips and making the mage groan. Dorian tried to move them into a better position—Maker was he out of practice with this—and felt one of Armand’s hands, warm against the bare skin of his lower back, leading him down, pressing them together. He found Armand’s mouth again, wanted to savor every second—

“Ahh,” Dorian broke off the kiss and sat up suddenly, straddling Armand’s hips. The Inquisitor took off his hands, peering up at him in flushed confusion. “That,” Dorian nodded towards Armand’s left hand, with the Veilmark glowing faintly green against his palm, “may be a problem.”

In a flash Armand winced, realizing. A mark meant to sew the Veil shut, a mark that was a torrid power in of itself, against a mage sensitive to the Fade.

“A shame,” Armand chuckled weakly, eyes apologetic but mouth smiling, “I’ve been told I’m good with my hands.” He curled the offending hand into a fist, but Dorian took his hand by the wrist and stretched it over Armand’s head, pressing it against the headboard of the bed.

“Let’s see how good you are with just one,” he said to Armand’s questioning look, and the red shade of his face was gratifying indeed.

~

“Well,” Armand said aloud, waking Dorian up. He turned, looking over to where the Inquisitor was sprawled on the bed, hair a debauched mess. His eyes were laughing and he smiled like a knife at Dorian, who was in a similar state. “That’s interesting.”

“What?” Dorian asked tiredly, rolling over completely. He idly reached over and traced the darkened mark of his own mouth where it stood out against Armand’s neck.

For a reply, Armand jerked his chin towards the headboard. Dorian glanced up and froze, mouth hanging slightly open. In the wood, a burned outline showed the pattern of the mark in Armand’s hand. Dorian turned to Armand again, his lips curving into a smile.

“That good?” he asked.

Armand laughed. It was one of the best things Dorian had ever heard. “That amazing,” Armand corrected him, and Dorian pulled him in for a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> I just... want to romance Dorian Pavus... so much...


End file.
